


The Blind Restauranteur

by Anonymous



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 19:02:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A typical evening in the Holmes household. (No-one is actually blind)</p><p>Commentfic for the prompt: Joancroft with babies. </p><p>Warnings for accidental culinary grossness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blind Restauranteur

"You're doing it wrong, mommy." Charlie fidgeted impatiently. The chain around his wrists clanked against the pipes of radiator, the vibrations knocked loose the bobbypin and the two lock pins she'd used it to jimmie into position.

Joan sighed inwardly.

"Just give me a minute." she reassured him, trying again to feel around the dummy catches to the lock's true pins. "I've almost got this." Damn, she was out of practice.

"You're out of practice," Sherlock observed from the room's doorway. The lock finally sprung free and Joan untangled the chain from both Charlie and the radiator. She stood and turned to him.

"Care to explain this? And why I just caught Alex almost electrocuting herself on the Lexus' wiring?" Joan suspected she knew the answer, but she wanted to hear it from Sherlock's own mouth, that way she'd be entirely justified in her actions when she threw Charlie's Iron Man toy at his head.

Sherlock frowned, non-plussed. "Is it not obvious?"

"If it were would I have asked?" Joan lied, smiling tightly.

"You and Mycroft made me your children's godfather," Sherlock explained. "That involves a certain responsibility -- to protect them, to keep them safe. I'm simply carrying out that responsibility to the best of my abilities. And a good thing too," he added, gesturing to the lock and bobbypin discarded at her feet, "as your own grasp on the finer arts of evasion and self-defence seems to be wavering since you became a parent."

"I'm going to say this just once," Joan crossed her arms over her chest. "Chaining my children to radiators and teaching them to hotwire your brother's car is not in the job description for good godfather."

"I-"

She held up a finger, silencing him. "I don't wanna hear it." 

Charlie tugged at her sleeve. "But mom-"

"From you either," Joan admonished. 

Downstairs the front door slammed. She glanced at her watch. "That'll be Mycroft."

Sherlock cast a baleful glance to the landing behind him "I suppose he's brought with him whatever that hideous excuse for a Chef thinks constitutes food again."

"Funny how you say that every time and yet you always clear your plate." Joan reminded him. She bent and pressed a kiss to the top of Charlie's head. "Go wash up for dinner, sweetie," The kid zoomed from the bedroom, swerving round Sherlock to his own sound-effects of screeching brakes and police siren. Joan couldn't help but smile.

"Well," Sherlock rolled onto his heels, chin jutting defensively. "It's only good manners to partake of the victuals when one is a guest in a friend's home."

Joan considered arguing with him, but she could hear Alex clattering around the kitchen with her father, which meant something was about to get dropped and broken. Not Mycroft's favourite mug again, she prayed, that was an afternoon with crazy glue she was not repeating under any circumstances. What was it with Homes boys and strange obsessions? 

"Sure, whatever." she told Sherlock, squeezing past him onto the landing.

"That good godfather thing." He called after her, "I don't suppose it extends to organ dissection."

Joan shot him what she hoped was a look that succinctly conveyed her opinions on the matter. He followed her down the stairs. 

"Only I recently acquired some very interesting specimens from St Barts," Sherlock continued as they entered the kitchen, "and it'd be a shame to waste-" 

Mycroft looked up from the island in the middle of the kitchen where he stood knife in hand over a chopping board full of meat. "Sorry, we were slammed today, I thought I'd save Alastair the trouble and cook something at... is everything alright?"

Joan raised an eyebrow and turned to Sherlock who had at least the good sense to look mildly apologetic rather than annoyed.

"-or I did have some interesting specimens." Sherlock concluded. 

Alex pulled a face at the liver and kidneys that Mycroft was in the process of chopping. "Ew, dad."

He frowned "I'm missing something."

"Fish n Chips?" Sherlock said hopefully. Joan glared at him. "My treat?" he tried.

"What's for dinner?" Charlie tumbled into the kitchen, skidding on the polished concrete floor in his socks.

Alex swept him up in her arms, depositing him on the counter. "Dad's cooking us people!" she told him with relish.

"Person, technically," Sherlock corrected. Joan elbowed him.

"Ewwwwwwwww." Charlie wrinkled his nose. "What's for dessert?" he added, sugar addiction winning out over disgust.

"It's... You!" Alex snapped her teeth at his ear, zombie-style. Charlie shrieked and leapt down from the counter and the pair took off into the living room, Alex groaning and shuffling, arms outstretched and her brother sprinting, screaming in equal parts terror and delight.

"Oh honestly, Sherlock." Mycroft looked from the knife to his hands to the chopping board and back again as if unsure which he wanted to douse in disinfectant first.

"You can't possibly blame me for this." his brother whined. "How was I to know you'd come home and start rummaging around in the fridge like some sort of- of domestic forager! It's hardly in your nature these days, and besides they were properly labelled." 

Mycroft held up a slightly bloodied tupperware box labelled on the side with a piece of scotch tape. "It says 'lungs'." he stated flatly.

"And what does it say on the bottom? Bart's. Exactly. You never look at things _properly_ ," Sherlock griped.

Since this was probably going to go on for a while, Joan headed to the refrigerator and retrieved a bottle of Chardonnay and an equally bloody tupperwear box whose base was labelled "viscera". She dropped the box straight into the trash, shooting Sherlock a look that dared him to say anything.

"I'm sorry, I haven't quite grasped your transparent system of labelling things vaguely and in the last place anyone would think to look." Mycroft snapped, attempting to pick liver out from under his nails.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother's pained expression. "Well, it's not exactly complex in its simplicity, is it?" 

From the living room came the sound of something distinctly lamp-like hitting the floor and almost simultaneously Charlie's shout of "I didn't do it!"

Yeah, Joan reflected sipping her wine, just a typical Holmes family evening.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [No Worries](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1782586) by [shanqi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shanqi/pseuds/shanqi)




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